Monday, April 3, 2017

In the end there was light, a dark at the end of the tunnel, a spark that lit a pile of Blackcats that eventually made me lose my eyebrows. Or maybe it was a simpler, more inane message from Gawd, one in which it became my prerogative to interpret golden tablets and have a wife for every night of the week; a bonus if one of those matriarchs had a hot daughter that came of age at 11; and a double bonus if I didn't have to interact with black people 'til the 1970's. The only downside to this Utopia being that coffee had to be decaf and my underwear was not only always clean, but inspirational to the point of magic. Ah America, the only place where such snake-oil salesman thrive, even inspiring the 20th century version akin to a horrid amalgamation of Star Wars and Buddhism....what have we done to ourselves but repeatedly shoot our feet and wonder oh wonder why we are bleeding.
Thus began my trip to Salt Lake City.
Not my first time through the Land of Mor(m)on, but it was my first stay of more than a few hours, 3 full days to be exact.
This was my 3rd consecutive year attending NAHBS as an Oddity Cycles groupy/escort girl and boy howdy was it a letdown...the only truly outstanding moment being my coupling with my Greenie Weenie 27.5x3.6 monster truck beauty:

This bike, replete with a powder-coated Ti fork, stem/bars and post, had been a collaboration between myself and the Pirate, aka Burnsey - along with Paul Components and HED wheels - wherein I had to grease his stripper pole repeatedly and turn tricks to afford the exorbitant pricing of a #deepcustom artisan who would never build a Michael Jackson tribute bike. Butt, the key element, the piece de la resistance was the simple, yet elegant anatomy that graced the logos...

...half-eaten dog bones, or #tinydicks as the Trumptards would call them.

The moral of the whory is simply to never tempt a Boner Ghost with boners, however 'not to scale' they may be. If you are one of the 2 people out of a meelyon who have not yet seen the Radavist's coverage of my Oddity cock-pit, then follow them thar series of tubes over to his MySpace page.

For reasons that only my parole officer can legally explain, I was unable to make it to Ft. Collins and join the caravan -i.e. the #hardcorbincummybuns fart bus - and the drive to SLC, and was forced to fly first class from KC with my entourage of bald Pomeranian comfort animals, as well as a suitcase filled with Kanye West's Oprah love letters.

Shit went down though, and all but a select few of the Original 8Lumens founding members arrived at the convention center, our glory on high being exalted by the presence of the DeFeet booth where I was informed that our 'Fuck Yeah' socks ( the brainchild of El Blanco Miguel) are still the numero uno selling sock in the 'artist series'...if only I was more sober I could recite the sordid tale of how these socks originally came to fruition, a tome so dense with irony that it drips with pathetic groveling and ass-spelunking; I cannot even begin to fart in their general direction.

I'm not sure how to lay out how shitty this year's NAHBS was in terms of vendors and attendance, not to mention the insane, weird vibe that is SLC as a whole, but let me tell you Billy Bob, there was some serious drama...mainly the outing of Bicycle Pubes, who rented the entire top floor of the Marriot and threw the party of the century with little more than a few pins and stickers, fooling even Dirt Rag and Anna Swindler into believing he was the reincarnation of Joseph Smith herself.

The night ended with a pudding-filled, kiddy pool death-match between Pubes and Prolly, and let's just say that my bets paid off: I can now retire to my Trump Tower suite in Vegas and attend to my retinue of Dwarves and Whores - soundtrack by The Sluts.

The after-parties sucked bloody vaginal bloodfarts, so we rode our show bikes around the city that sister-wives built, stopping on occasion to be sustained by 2.3% beer and Taco Time enemas. At least my nights ended with spooning sessions with Urethra Franklin at a sexy-ass AirBnB with the 'rock star Sklar' and crew...

I spent most of my time at the Moonmen booth due to an emergency in the Life Of Todd, so I was able to avoid the traffic jam that was the Prince Bike, along with the gorgeous assholes that are White Mikey and Chasm, a reward that is invaluable, gold bars in the ass notwithstanding; basically pacing the floor of the center high as fuck with cold-brew coffee from Hot Box-Reeb Cycles.

Oh yeah, before I forget, check out my 'coverage' of NAHBS 2017 on Fat-bike.com - all things chubby and plusssy. Don't leave out the hyphen you fucktards.